~Subject: THE HORSEWOMEN pt 1 (BDSM fantasy story)
~From: an438434@anon.penet.fi (Umbra)
~Date: Fri, 24 Nov 1995 21:21:49 UTC
~Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.femdom
NOTE: this story is for adults only.  As will be evident, all

   characters and settings and all action are entirely fictitious. 
===========================================

   THE HORSEWOMEN a Love Story by Jeanne de Stein

   Nine parts posted separately.  This is # 1 Parts posted one every
weekend to this group.

   1.  THE CAPTURE

   He ran, without knowing why.  He knew that he was lost.  They were
mounted, he was on foot.  They could have taken him anytime, but they were
probably playing him, the way you play a fish on a hook.

   Why, by the Nether Gods, had he been dumb enough to try to cross the
Grasslands?  Especially on foot?  Out here, he was helpless.  He should
have found a way through the forest instead.  It might have taken him two
weeks, three weeks, but so what?  He would have made it.  But now ...  he
tried not to think of what lay in store for him.

   Instead, he ran.  Not that it would change the outcome; but there are
times when reason is not applicable.  His breath seared his throat, his
lungs fought for air and his legs were growing ever heavier.  Still, he
ran, while the horizon rocked slowly in front of him and the ochre grass
grew fuzzy.

   The Coastlands and the Marches were alive with the rumours of what the
Horsewomen did to the males that fell into their hands.  If you were lucky,
they knifed you before cutting off your member for a trophy, but you could
just as well be out of luck.  Those who screamed were sometimes silenced by
having their testicles thrust down their throats.  If you were really out
of luck, you would be spared for the moment, only to be slowly tortured to
death later, for the amusement of the sisterhood.  These women were said to
delight in torturing males.  Even staying with the Lord En-Tor and
accepting your punishment for insubordination would have been better.  At
least, he would have stayed alive---presumably.

   They were close now.  He could hear the sound of hooves, hear the
pursuers yelling in their harsh voices, like birds of prey on the wing. 
There were other stories of course, about how captive males were used,
yarns that had been spun with delight mixed with horror.  It was known that
the horsewomen kept male slaves, too.  But just now these stories lacked
credibility.  Therefore he kept running in a gathering red mist.

   The ground was rising in front of him, and the horizon closed in.  He
felt his legs wobble.  Near the top of the little rise---it was not six
feet high---they folded under him and that was the end of it.  The ground
reeled under him.  The grass was dry and coarse and tasted of dust, a
bitter mineral taste.  He heard the rumble of thunder coming up close; or
was it the hoofs?

   He stayed face down, desperately clutching at the grass that stung his
skin, waiting for the cold steel between his shoulderblades.  He would have
preferred to meet them standing, but his body deserted him.  Now he felt a
knee in the small of his back; he froze but caught a glimpse of a leather
boot, and further away the other horsewoman, mounted, black against the sun
and with a lance pointing in his direction.  He fought desperately for air.
The woman behind his back yelped a command and gripped him above both
elbows.  He felt her strap his arms together behind his back, very hard,
very close to each other, and his face was again ground into the warm,
bitter dust.  His brain seemed to have ceased to function; his wits had
deserted him completely.

   She rose and nudged him between his ribs with the toe of her boot. 
Again she yelped; groaning, he rolled over and saw her as a shadow above
him.  Her foot against his shoulder, she pushed him down and tore off his
loincloth.  The mounted woman barked and they laughed, both of them.  A
knife flashed.  His belly muscles contracted, but the dismounted woman put
the blade between her teeth, and in her hands she held a long lariat-strap
of rawhide.  Then the knee again, and roughly, roughly the strap was tied
around his testicle bag.  Her hands were hard and purposeful and awakened
no response in him.  She jerked the lariat---no misunderstanding on his
part was possible-- and she rose, standing over him with her hands on her
hips, dark against the dark blue dry-season sky.

   So they would not kill him at once.  The only thing he could do was to
obey them and bide his time.  Perhaps an opportunity to escape would offer
itself, if only the two horsewomen would grow careless.  His eyes were
working better now, though his throat was still hurting and his heart
thumped; he could discern the women clearly.  He had never seen horsewomen
before.  They were naked like thrall-women---well, nearly---but they had no
masters, that he knew.  The mounted one, with the feathered lance that was
still pointing at him, was older than the woman who had captured him.  The
young one had a quiver on her back, the strap tight between her breasts,
the older one a rawhidelariat with a eye made of bone, looped across her
shoulders.  The older horse witch wore her straight, raven-black hair in a
topknot slightly to the side of her head, the young one had gathered it in
the same place but in a waving plume.  Both wore necklaces of animal fangs
on strings.Their only real article of clothing was a crotch clout.  From
their broad belts, decorated with cowrie shells, hung pouches, ivory cases,
knives with fringed sheaths and carved bone handles and the straps that
held the crotch-length soft boots, also embellished with fringes and lines
of cowries.

   But the most striking thing was not their nakedness or their strange
outfits but their tattoos.  The dark blue patterns began at the hairline,
changed their faces into cruel tiger masks, covered their arms and bodies
and continued into the tops of their boots.  Even the nipples of the young
one were tattooed.  The right breast was completely covered by a whirling
pattern, on the left one the skin shone untouched between the starry
rosette of the aureole and the ornaments of her chest, where birds and
beasts seemed to be tearing each other to pieces among swirling lines and
tatters of blue-black ornament.  The older one was so dark of skin that her
patterns were difficult to discern.

   The impression of unbridled savagery was overwhelming.  If the rumours
were only half true, the impression would be correct.

   Their horses were shaggy, with long manes and tails.  The women rode
with wooden stirrups and with furs over their saddles; when the hand-horse
walked past he could see the bow in its case by the saddle.  They seemed to
use no other rein than a strap around the lower jaw of the horse.

   The young one was jerking at the lariat again, pulling him to his knees.
The horizon was still unsteady, and he was not getting enough air.  An
inner voice told him though, very insistently, that he must not make these
strange women impatient.  Submissively, he tried to rise, but got only to
his knees, reeling.  Now the woman was holding a leather flask.  With her
other hand she grasped his hair, with her teeth she pulled the plug and
then she stuck the neck of the bottle into his mouth.  It was water.  It
had a stale leathery taste, but it was life.  He shook his head and he
regained his feet, reeling.  More water?  He shook his head again, but
gratefully, hoping that his emotion was showing.  What more did he need? 
Freedom?  Just keeping alive, perhaps.

   The young one mounted her horse.  She paid out enough lariat so that he
could march behind her horse, and started out in an easterly direction at a
walk.  The older one brought up the rear with her lance nonchalantly
balanced across the withers of the horse.  What could a prisoner do, on
foot, his hands tied behind his back and towed by his balls?  They rode
slowly, fortunately.

   He felt dejected, as if walls had suddenly closed around him.  He
hadbriefly tasted freedom, and now it was gone.  The sunlight and the sky
had lost their sparkle.  His limbs felt heavy, and there was a metallic
taste in his mouth.  Was it real, or was it the taste of captivity?  The
water had helped, however.  He felt stronger, and soon he no longer
experienced that stinging sensation in his back when he was thinking of the
lance point.  The woman in front kept the strap taut, however.  He trotted
along, his eyes fixed on her.  They followed the back of her head with the
tightly gathered hair, the slender but strong neck, where the pattern lines
of her tattoos ran from her cheeks down to the muscular back; her
shoulders, broad for a woman, her narrow waist and curving hips.  Her
buttocks rested in the saddle-fur but her thighs were hidden by the boots.
Without noticing the change, he was starting to see her as a woman, not
only as a mounted she-savage.  She would have been comely without her
strange body decoration and in proper dress---or completely naked, for that
matter.

   What sort of woman would she be, this being out of a tale only half
believed, a story out of the plains that had given birth to so many
legends? Was she a merciless killer, or an equally merciless user of male
flesh, as some would have it---or was there some trace in her of humanity
(whatever that might mean), or even of womanhood as he had known and
appreciated it?  She would not be soft and submissive, of course. 
Mastering her would be like taming a wild animal.  Still, in spite of her
fierceness, she would be good to touch, good to bed.

   It was perhaps idle thoughts like these; perhaps it was the sight of her
shameless nakedness--- he was used to seeing civilized women, well
protected from unchaste eyes --or the constant pull of the strap around his
testicles, but after about one hour's march he had a respectable hard-on.
When he became aware of it, he was terrified: would his guards discover it
and be offended?  On no account did he want to arouse their ire, now that
he was completely in their power.

   He did not escape his fate however.  The young one looked behind
herself, saw his impudent erection and reined in her horse.  His heartbeat
came to a dead stop.  But a grin cleaved her grotesque mask, and she called
to her companion, who came up alongside them, thrust her lance into the
turf, jumped off her horse and stood close to him; the corners of her eyes
wrinkled merrily.  Unceremoniously, she gripped his shoulder with one hand
and his member with the other, while she exchanged comments with her
companion.  To his amazement, he felt himself grow even stiffer.  How could
this horse-witch make him horny, in spite of the fear that he felt of her
(he admitted this to himself: when she laid her hand upon him, only his
stiffness had saved him from pissing out of sheer terror).  The young
horsewoman put a question to the old one; the witch laughed and shook her
head.  She mounted her pony again and the caravan moved on.  But for a long
time, the two women continued to crack jokes about him and laugh loudly and
without restraint, and he could only guess at what they were saying.

   They travelled slowly and with many pauses while the sun drifted west.
Near the evening, when the shadows were long and the sunlight was an orange
glow suffusing the world, carrying only a memory of the searing heat of the
day, the ground began to sink ahead of them and look greener.  Bushes were
growing in denser clumps now, and a little later, they became sparse trees;
the steppe had changed into park-like savanna.  They were now following a
clearly visible track, running alongside a skittish little brook bordered
by green foliage.  The track rounded a rocky knoll where the boulders
seemed to have been shattered like skulls by a giant's axe in ages past. 
Behind it, the brook tumbled noisily into a little pond edged by gravel and
small stones, and there were sheltering walls of stone and a hut or rather
a windbreak, open to the south, of loosely piled rock and with a simple
ridged grass roof held down by more stones.  Here they halted.

   The women did not take the trouble to tether him.  He could not hope to
escape anyway, with his arms immobilised and without a horse.  They busied
themselves with the horses, which were hobbled with straps around their
front legs, and then put out to graze on their own.  The water-skins were
filled.  The older woman made a fire and fetched water in a leather pail. A
bronze kettle was lifted from its hook under the ridgepole and put on the
fire.

   Now he could have a closer look at them.  The young one might be twenty
or a little more---it was not easy to judge the age of a woman of such
strange aspect.  Her skin under the tattoos was olive brown, smooth over
firm muscles; she was very erect and walked with a nonchalant swagger that
he had hitherto seen only in men---and only in the strongest and most
self-assured among them.  The older one was even more difficult to assess,
but she had a few grey hairs in among the black.  None of them had an ounce
of superfluous fat on their bodies, but while the young witch was made up
entirely of muscle, the older one seemed to have been braided, knotted and
twisted out of bundles of rawhide.  Both had small, pointed breasts, the
young one's firmer, but the older woman's were still springy.

   What did their faces look like behind their bestial masks?  His first
impression was that they were outlandishly ugly.  They had slightly sloping
foreheads, long prominent noses (the older one's boldly hooked), high
cheekbones, broad mouths and receding chins.  In the face of the older
woman,wind and sun had wrinkled the skin around her eyes, and decisiveness
and cruelty were written around the corners of her mouth.  Both of them had
peculiarly light brown, nearly yellow eyes, like animals.  But boldness and
power shone like an aura around them.  They moved like lionesses, and
suddenly he saw that, though abominable, they were beautiful.

   The young witch rested her quiver against the saddle, by the wall, and
without embarrassment she took off what little she had on.  He tried not to
show that he was stealing a look.  With the aid of her teeth she untied the
left arm's leather bowstring guard, unhooked the bronze buckle of her belt
and stepped out of her boots.  Her tattoos continued down to her toes. 
Then the crotch-clout, and she was naked, apart from the necklace.  Without
condescending to give the captive a look, she walked into the water-hole up
to her hips and washed with visible pleasure.  When she emerged from the
water, she shook herself like a wet dog, shedding water in all directions
while she passed close by her captive.  Now she stopped and looked at him,
covered with sweat and dust as he was.  Then she smiled---inscrutably, but
still a smile---picked up the strap and led him into the water.

   It was cool and refreshing; the bottom of gravel and stone was firm. 
She was quite considerate: she made him sit down and she washed his face
and shoulders; she stood him up and rubbed him clean with her hands.  Now
they had the older witch for company, just as naked as they were, and she
scrubbed his back and behind while the young one washed his member andballs
carefully.  She was very close now; while her companion washed, she grasped
his shoulders and rubbed herself against him.  Though he was tired and
cold, her touch lit a spark of lust inside him.  Her face was very close to
his, but he could not bring himself to look into her eyes---perhaps he
should avoid doing that and try to look completely subdued.  Instead he
looked past her and saw the older horsewoman, her arms raised while she
gathered her wet hair; and to his amazement, she too fanned that spark. 
What could make him lust for women such as these?

   Back on dry ground, the red sun was still giving off a feeble warmth,
but he started to shake.  He felt desperately tired.  They rubbed him dry
with a bundle of hay, as if he had been a horse, and put a coarsely woven
riding cloak around him.  When his shaking had ceased, they stood quietly
watching him.  The young one caught his eye, laid her hand between her
breasts and said: --Sarissa.  Then she indicated her companion and gave her
a name too: --Atossa.

   It was an introduction.  Of all the things that had happened to him
since his capture, nothing had reassured him more than this simple act of
communication.  You do not formally introduce yourself to somebody you
intend to torture to death.  He told his own name but got shakes of heads
and two indulgent laughs for an answer.  Ha ha!  Androu!  Androu!  Were
males not allowed names in their world?

   They rested around the fire.  He was beginning to feel warm again, and
more at ease.  Slowly, strength was returning to him.  The women, who had
dressed again (if one may call it that) gave him to drink and fed him
strips of dried meat, boiled with herbs.  His arms were still tied very
uncomfortably together and they had not taken the trouble to remove the
bag-strap either, but the fire gave comfort, the sight of female bodies was
somehow comforting too, and the behaviour of the two women was not in the
least alarming.  Sarissa and Atossa talked softly between them; now and
then they glanced at him with a mischievous look in their faces.  By and
by, they grew exhilarated.  They laughed between them, sat down on both
sides of him and pushed him over, felt and squeezed him.

   Soon, they were caressing him.  He was resting in an uncomfortable
position, his back arched and his hips high as his arms were tied under
him. Still, he felt it prudent to accept this.  The two women set to work
in earnest.  They were good, even the young Sarissa seemed to know exactly
how to make a male randy.  An unreasonable but uncontrollable fear of what
their hands would do to him, when they got down to business, possessed him
at first.  When finally this fear had abated, his real excitement began. 
He banished all thought of what would become of him and thought of the
present only.  He groaned with pleasure while Sarissa pulled the skin of
his member up and down.  Atossa tickled, pulled, wrenched, pinched and bit
his nipples.  She hurt him, but curiously enough, the pain increased his
randiness instead of quenching it.  They both observed him carefully:
obviously, they did not want to lose control of him.

   Atossa departed but returned with an oblong object made out of horn, in
the shape of a thick male organ.  He looked at it in dumb horror.  He had
begun to expect a pleasant night; had he misjudged the situation
completely? Gesturing at their knifes, the women had him lie face down
across Atossa's saddle.  He knew better than trying to resist; after all,
torture and death were not quite the same thing.  Torture could be worse
than death itself: he had seen this himself, and this fact was the very
foundation of Lord En-Tor's rule.  But it could also be a temporary horror,
possible to survive.  Atossa gave him a last shove, and then she put the
tip of the unspeakable instrument to his anus.  Then, slowly but inexorably
she pushed the rod into him, impaling him.  It hurt him, but he would not
reward them with more than a groan, in spite of his fear.  This seemed to
be all that they required, however.  Atossa pushed and turned the tool;
when he felt it moving inside him, a warm sensation spread across his
crotch and reached his sex in spite of the pain.  Again, his member
stiffened.

   But his suspicion was aroused again when Sarissa hammered down four
tethering stakes into the floor of the hut with a stone maul.  Now they
released his arms, but Atossa stood erect with her hand on the knife: no,
he was not going to provoke her.  Moving clumsily because of the rod, he
suffered Sarissa to turn him on his back and tie his wrists to two of the
stakes, then his ankles to the other two.  The straps were pulled taut, and
he was utterly helpless.  He was telling himself again and again that
nothing in their behaviour threatened actual death or mutilation ...  at
least he tried to convince himself that it was so.  Fear and excitement
were struggling for his attention; excitement won.  Then the two witches
started their game anew.  They threw off their crotch- clouts and were
naked again, except for their belts and boots.  They met, kissed avidly,
sucked each other's breasts and stuck their hands into each other's sex in
a rising fury.  Panting, they rubbed their bodies against each other. 
Nothing had prepared him to believe that these women would actually make
love to each other.  With the usual smugness of the male, he had
believed--- and nothing in the tales of the plains had suggested
otherwise---that the horsewomen had to rely on males exclusively for their
sexual pleasure.  That this was not so was a deeply disturbing thought, but
at least, they did seem interested in him in his capacity as a male.  He
was so fascinated with the spectacle of the two furies in front of him that
the thought never occurred to him that his virility might desert him.

   Finally, Atossa disengaged; she crawled all over her prisoner, straddled
him and rubbed him with her wet vulva.  Soon she was sitting on his face,
and his mouth and nose were enclosed by her labia.  She had a wild smell in
spite of her bath.  He saw her body in a grotesque but exciting
perspective, the demon-like face looking down on him between the jutting
breasts, and then she changed her position so that she was facing down his
body.  She pulled roughly at his nipples, and, half suffocated, he felt
Sarissa sitting astride himself, burying her nails in his scrotum and
member.  He whimpered.  His signs of pain seemed to increase their
excitement.  Atossa rose, and he saw Sarissa's dancing body and narrow,
slanting eyes in the flickering light of the fire.

   Atossa returned a second time.  Horrified, he saw the two long, coarse
skewers in her hand.  He scarcely noticed that Sarissa raised herself and
guided the tip of his member into her body.  Again, Atossa's sex was all
over him.  They rode him unmercifully, and now he was aware that he was
inside Sarissa and pleasure was rising like pain inside him.  But there was
real pain, too: she was coming down hard on his balls every time she rode
down on him.  He was close, and they noticed it.  This was when Atossa
grasped his right nipple, pulled it savagely and thrust one of the skewers
through the aureole.  The pain was a shock that ran through his entire
body. He screamed without restraint into her sex.  The witches exulted and
Sarissa took the gallop.  Atossa pierced the other nipple while her
dripping wet vulva suffocated his screaming and he came, unable to sort out
the pleasure from the pain; Sarissa gave a cry.  They collapsed on top of
him while the jerking of his body slowly died away.

   They were strangely gentle afterwards.  Atossa was lying with her arm
around him, panting, Sarissa was rubbing her face against his.  But they
would not set him free: that night, he had to sleep with his arms still
tied to the stakes, and with both the rod and the skewers in place.  His
last thought, before his soul began its night-walk, was that a repetition
of this evening's experiences was an idea too horrible to contemplate; but
at the same time, he knew that he desired these two women so much that he
would soon be willing to face the music again, just in order to earn their
attentions.

   Next morning, they continued their march, now with Atossa leading; she
rode leaning back and swaying in the saddle; occasionally, both of them
sang.  His arms were still tied behind his back and Atossa was holding the
lariat, but they had at least pulled the rod out of his ass-hole (and he
had been made to wash it, of course, his anus still searing with the memory
of it).  Sarissa rode next to him when the ground permitted it, and once or
twice she looked down and smiled at him.  But the two skewers remained
where Atossa had pierced him, and they were spreading a dull pain which
changed into a sting whenever he moved his shoulders.  He was still afraid
of the two horsewomen, but for a different reason: now he feared their
caresses, not their knives.

   At noon, Sarissa reined in her horse, gazed at the horizon and exchanged
a few words with Atossa, who nodded and urged her prisoner on again.  But
Sarissa trotted north and disappeared.  Atossa walked him toward a shady
umbrella-tree nearby, one that he had already cast longing eyes at for a
while.  Here they paused.  The witch spread her cloak on the ground and he
was allowed to lie down.  The horse was free to graze, but soon it too
withdrew into the shade.  Around them, the grasslands quivered and danced
with the heat.  Atossa's mind seemed to have mellowed; she gave the
prisoner water and felt his arms which were swollen around the straps.  She
thought for a moment.  Then she tied his ankles together, freed his arms
and pulled them up above his head.  At first he thought that she would
fetter him the same way as the previous evening, and to the same purpose,
and for a moment, he was simultaneously scared and expectant; but she tied
his wrists around the trunk of a sapling that grew close to the large tree,
and then she untied the strap around his ankles again.  Relieved, he
understood her intention: she wanted to keep him under total control while
she rested, but at the same time, she would give him a chance to
recuperate. The new position was a relief to his aching shoulders.  She
went as far as unknotting the strap around his scrotum that he had worn for
a day and a night now without respite.  He felt a sting of lust, together
with the crawling sensation of the blood that circulated freely again, but
Atossa was businesslike and quick and it was soon over.

   Now she bent over him and examined his nipples, still pierced by the two
skewers.  She grunted and fetched a box that contained a salve with a
strong smell of herbs; she put on a little of it with her finger on each
nipple.  It hurt, but he kept a straight face.  She clearly wanted to help
and heal him, not torture him.  And strangely enough, her touch awakened a
vivid memory of the past night, and not only of the pain and the terror but
also of the lust and the pleasure, which now seemed to him the greater and
more important memory.

   Involuntarily, he sighed.  Atossa pricked up her ears.  She regarded him
for a while and this time he returned her gaze, looking straight into her
yellow eyes.  Not a muscle moved in her face.  Then she laid herself down
by his side and grasped his member.  Gradually, it stiffened under her
fingers.  She squeezed, and then she began to caress him slowly.  She took
her time, lots of time.  But when, after what seemed an eternity, his
breath grew irregular, she pressed her nails into his rod and slapped it
with her palm.  She saw him grimace and she smiled a she-wolf smile, but
her eyes were more amused than cruel.  She gripped his testicles and
squeezed them, but now he had gathered his wits and he did not show any
fear.  Atossa looked searchingly at him; then she rested again, still with
his bag in a firm grip.  He wished she would caress him again, but she did
not.  After a while, his excitement and his erection receded.  Still, they
were resting quietly, looking into each other's eyes when Sarissa returned
much later with a little grass antelope slung in front of her saddle.

   Again, the two women made a fire with a stone and a piece of steel out
of Atossa's belt pouch.  The meat was grilled and eaten, and the captive
too was fed.  When the sun moved west, they continued through the heat and
the blinding light.  Atossa was her harsh self again, but the memory of her
unexpected charity remained.  She was human after all.  She could even be
tender.  His arms were tied behind his back again, but by his wrists now,
and he was better able to move his shoulders.  But he was still treated
very unceremoniously.  After a while, his bladder began to trouble him, but
he dared not try to make the women halt.  When the urge grew so strong that
he could not restrain himself but began to urinate, writhing inwardly with
shame, he had to continue to do so while walking.  But when the women
understood that he had to ease himself more, they stopped and had him squat
in the high grass.

   That night they slept in the open, under another umbrella-tree, warmed
by a dying fire and by each other.  Atossa shared her cloak with him.  She
seemed interested in his welfare, even protective.  He had wondered, half
scared and half expectant, if they would amuse themselves by playing with
him again, but they seemed to be completely sated.  He rested for a while,
listening to the deafening night concert of the grass and tree creatures
and the sound of the wind in the high crown of the tree, but at last he
slept.  What his spirit did that night, he did not know.

   He woke up with a hard-on, and again, he felt Atossa's hand around his
member while he disentangled himself from his night thoughts.  But that was
all, and after a quick and frugal breakfast, they continued their way. 
They marched for most of the morning, rested without eating, but also
without tying him up, and continued.  The ache and the swelling around the
skewers were subsiding, but he wondered how long the march would be, and
how many days he would spend walking on a leash.

   Still, it was with some trepidation that he saw Sarissa halt on the
crest of a ridge and understood that this was the end of the voyage. 
Below, a watercourse zigzagged through a nearly dry bed---months had passed
since the great rains.  Beyond it was a cluster of brown tents.  Smoke
rose, dogs barked, horsed moved on the slope beyond the camp.

   Atossa rose in her stirrups and gave a call that seemed to turn
somersaults in her throat.  Human figures stood up and emerged from the
tents, and the call came back, faint because of the distance.  They
continued down the slope, crossed the brook where the water felt tepid
around his ankles, and the march was over.  

(To be continued with part 2)